All That's Left
by Ardialene
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has only two people in his datebook, the only two with the important titles of archenemy and best friend. With him dead, the only way Mycroft can repent for his mistake is through the only person Sherlock called friend: Dr. John Watson.


**All That's Left**

_Summary: Sherlock Holmes has only two people in his datebook. Now, with Sherlock dead, the only way Mycroft can repent for his mistake is through the only person Sherlock called friend: Dr. John Watson._

Clichéd as it is, I _had _to write something when I finished watching the final episode of season 2. I literally would have died if I didn't. And as I have seen many _John angsts and moans because Sherlock is gone_ and _Sherlock returns to John after he supposedly dies_ fics, I have yet to see a story like mine. I hope it's original enough to avoid being rejected as yet another post- Reichenback fic.

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**ALL THAT'S LEFT**

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When Mycroft contacted him for the first time, John ignored the call. After how Mycroft had betrayed Sherlock, John knew that he'd do something stupid if he answered the phone. In his darkest hours, it was all he could do to stop himself from picking up Sherlock's gun and hunting Mycroft down to show him exactly what happened to traitors. Intellectually, he knew that while he'd lost his best friend, his savior, Mycroft had lost a brother. Even the Holmes brothers, famous for uncaring and unfeeling analysis, had had a brotherly bond. The fact that it had been Mycroft that had handed Moriarty the key to Sherlock's downfall probably made him hurt all the more. The fact that living was more of a punishment than death made it possible for John to put down the gun.

The second time Mycroft contacted him, it was text message. It had come at seven in the morning, when John was just starting to wake up. He'd seen Mycroft's name and, in a haze of sleep induced amnesia, his mind immediately told him that Sherlock had gotten into trouble again. He pulled open the phone and opened the message, which as usual was quick and to the point:

_**We need to talk.**_

_**M**_

John had written a return message and was about to hit send when the haze was finally swept away by reality. His hands shook as he stared at his reply, a simple inquiry as to where they should meet. Before his better judgment could catch up with him, he pounded out words into the keyboard. All his hate and anger from the past few days poured over into the keyboard, until once again his thumb hovered over the send button. Only then did he take a breath and really think about what he was doing.

Then he deleted his reply and Mycroft's message.

The third time Mycroft contacted John, he didn't bother with the phone or a text. Instead, when John left 221B to head to the hospital for work, a black limo was parked outside the door with Mycroft's assistant Anthea standing by, a phone in hand. John stopped and stared at the limo a moment before turning to walk away. He soon found himself boxed in my three men in black suits while the limo rolled forward to stand beside him.

"You should get in." Anthea said absently, not looking up from her phone.

"I have nothing to say to Mycroft Holmes." John bit out.

"You should get in anyway." Anthea answered.

"You can tell Mycroft that whatever the hell he wants, he can get somewhere else." John snapped. "He got Sherlock killed. I don't want anything more to do with that two-faced murderer."

The three men around John stiffened and Anthea finally looked up from her phone. There was anger in her eyes, but she calmly opened the limo's door and looked him straight in the eyes. "He made a mistake." She said calmly. "Get in the car, Dr. Watson, before he makes another one."

John nearly set in on her, but apparently the three men had had enough. The one behind him gave him a hard enough shove to have him stumbling forward while the other two each took an arm and guided his fall into the limo. Anthea followed in behind him, and before John could protest the limo was moving too fast for him to safely jump out.

John glared at her. "Stop the limo and let me out."

Anthea ignored him, once more focused on her phone. Ignoring the childish urge to grab the phone and toss it out the window, John made himself comfortable for the moment and entertained himself creating the speech he'd be giving Mycroft when they met.

Two hours later, John had no idea where they were other than the fact that they were still in London. The limo stopped in front of an office building without markings on the front. John stared at the building, then started to rise. Anthea's hand whipped out and grabbed his arm as he tried to leave. "Sherlock was his brother." Anthea said softly. "He doesn't care for many, but he cared for him. Try to remember that."

John's jaw tightened, but he resisted the urge to erupt at Anthea. He jerked his arm from her grip and left the car, entering the building. He was given directions by a secretary, and soon found himself alone in what appeared to be a conference room, bare except for a long table and some chairs. On top of the table was a television, displaying the BBC news channel, and a small folded piece of white paper with his name neatly written on the front.

For a moment, John's anger overwhelmed him. He was half tempted to tear the paper apart and walk out, but another part, the part of him that had goaded him into following Sherlock the first day of the Study in Pink Case, was curious about its contents. He picked up the small note and opened it slowly.

_**Dr. John Watson**_

_**He was my younger brother. This**_

_**is all that I can do for him now.**_

_**Please watch the news at precisely**_

_**9:30 AM. The television is already**_

_**on the correct station.**_

_**Mycroft Holmes**_

John stared at the note before checking his watch. 9:33. He still had time to turn around if he wanted to. But once again, the part of him that had allowed Sherlock to drag him along on his cases had him sitting in front of the television, waiting.

A rather boring story of one of queen's new dogs giving birth was suddenly interrupted when the news anchor suddenly appeared on screen. "I'm sorry to interrupt Jonathan, but I've just been handed a very shocking report." Her face was solemn, but Jennifer Gaston's eyes showed a fair bit of excitement. She lifted up in her hands a manila folder. "As I'm sure we all know, two weeks ago famous amateur detective Sherlock Holmes was discovered to have faked his own genius by creating cases and then pretending to solve them. The most notable of these cases was the James Moriarty case, where Holmes hired out of work actor Richard Brook to act as a criminal in order to draw attention to Holmes's intelligence. This was exposed by a Sun reporter to whom Brook went to in order to divulge this story. The loss of his media acclaim resulted in Holmes's suicide two days after the story ran."

John felt his hands shaking, and would have smashed the television to bits if his legs would have supported him long enough. This is what Mycroft wanted him to see? This was supposed to make John forgive him?

"Ladies and Gentlemen of England, all of that is a lie."

John froze. His mind faltered trying to process the words. He stared at the screen, where Samantha Jork lifted a manila folder into the air. "In my hands is a file delivered to us by a source within MI6. The full file is available on our website, and my source has assured me that once this segment is aired, it will be available on multiple sites for the public to view as they please. It will interest you all to know that the name on this file is James Moriarty." Samantha put the file down and opened it, pulling out a piece of paper for the camera to close in on. "This is the official birth certificate of one James Moriarty, born in the Royal Brompton Hospital in London. It has been on file with the British government since 1978, the year of his birth."

The birth certificate was put down and another piece of paper came out. "This is a news article from 1985, describing a house fire that killed a man and woman, leaving their child an orphan. The house was owned by the Moriarty family, a fact which has been verified through public records, as has the validity of the newspaper in my hand. The orphaned child's name was James Moriarty." The news article displayed the picture of a seven-year old boy looking very much like Moriarty standing in front of a burned house.

This too was set down, and this time the paper lifted out of the file was lined with typed print with the official seal of the British Court. "This is the list of crimes for which one James Moriarty was placed under arrest for during his adolescent years. It includes a set of fingerprints which match those of the body of the man claiming to be Richard Brook. His crimes include arson, breaking and entering, assault and battery, and theft. These have been verified by Scotland Yard as valid criminal files."

The arrest record was set down, and several sheets were pulled into view. "Next, I give to you, my fellow citizens, the list of crimes for which James Moriarty, aka Richard Brook, was under investigation for at the time of his death. This list includes two counts of conspiracy to commit murder, smuggling, fraud, counterfeiting, and treason. These crimes can be traced back over ten years, and include incidents in which Sherlock Holmes had no part of the investigation."

The pages were placed down, and the camera refocused on her face. "It would appear, dear viewers, that we have all been lied to. Sherlock Holmes, a man respected and admired by many throughout our country, was brought low before us because of a few simple lies that we allowed to create doubt within us. We at BBC wish to extend our most sincere condolences to Mr. Holmes's family and friends-"

John shut off the television and sat for a moment, staring at the blank screen. Once again, it seemed, the media had chosen to stand behind Sherlock Holmes. Only now Sherlock wasn't around to appreciate it.

Slowly, John stood from his chair. He walked through the halls until he'd left the building, blinking into the sunlight. A look at his watch showed the time as 9:40. Only seven minutes, and yet the entire world had changed. Around him, people were chattering, the buzzing hum of conversation surrounding him.

"That awful reporter. . ."

". . . knew they were lying."

". . . brilliant man, Sherlock Holmes. . ."

John looked up at the sky, and for the first time in weeks, a smile stretched across his face. "You would never have cared, Sherlock." He whispered. "But you were always a hero, whether you liked it or not. I guess you're going to have to get used to it now."

As the clamor around him grew, John made his way to the waiting limo. Maybe, just maybe, he'd answer the next time Mycroft tried to contact him.


End file.
